Page 122 of Italy Can Bite Me

Katie, my brilliant co-conspirator, jumps in as though we’ve rehearsed this. “Couldn’t Jared go to the museum and meet us later?”

“Katiebug!” He turns to her with puppy-dog eyes that make me want to vomit. “Come with me! There’s this fascinating study on coprolites—”

“Fossilized dung,” Katie translates for my benefit.

“But I really wanted to see the Vatican,” she says. “The Sistine Chapel, the art…”

“Well…” Jared fidgets with his dinosaur tie, torn between ancient poop and his supposed true love.

“You could meet up with us after,” Katie suggests, already pulling out her phone. Her fingers fly across the screen. “Look, we’re still sharing locations from… well, before. I can track you. You can track me. Just like always.”

The “just like always” hits me hard.Damn. They never turned off their location sharing. Even after breaking up. Even after everything.

“You’re the absolute best!” Jared chirps, planting a quick kiss on Katie’s cheek.

“I promise I won’t be too long,” he says, already speed-walking toward the taxi stand.

“Take your time!” I shout.

“Did you seriously cockblock my fiancé with dinosaur bones?”

“Bella, if he’d rather spend time with extinct reptiles than your delicious mouth, he deserves his fate.”

Finally her first true smile of the day. Score one for the Italian Stallion.

“Besides,” I add, keeping pace with our cheerful seniors, “You like it when I’mon topof things.”

The blush that spreads across her cheeks is worth every manipulative moment. Let Jared have his fossils. I’ve got plans forthisliving, breathing work of art.

Though I do say a quick prayer of thanks to those ancient lizards. Who knew dinosaurs would be such excellent wingmen?

***

WelcometoVaticanCity,the ultimate power flex. Built on centuries of guilt, gold, and a whole lot of questionable decision-making. Because nothing says “We’re kind of a big deal” like having your own country.

And the Sistine Chapel? Sure, it’s a masterpiece, a jaw-dropping work of art. But here’s the kicker—Michelangelo was actually a sculptor who got strong-armed into being a painter. Mamma always claimed he was so pissed he painted his own face on the famous ceiling, giving the Pope the holiest “fuck you” in history. Papa argued no way, the man was an artist, not an idiota.

I’m on Team Mamma. Of course he did it.

But the clock is ticking. I don’t have time to entertain such thoughts. I have to get Katie Crawford to stop her self-destructive game. Every time I try to make a move, a senior from my group appears—like Katie-deflector shields.

“What year was this painted?”

“Does the Pope have a favorite gelato flavor?”

“Do angels have belly buttons?”

Mrs. Thomas actually asked me if Michelangelo was “packing” under those robes. Then Chester piped in with, “I mean, four years painting a ceiling? The man had to be hanging more than brushes.”

It’s official. This tour gets a trophy for most penis jokes.

Now we’re headed to a gift shop, which I usually avoid like the plague, but today? Today I’ll let the seniors debate whether God bobbleheads are blasphemous if it gets me five minutes alone with Katie. Still, I’m not about to let these seniors spend their retirement funds on Vatican-approved trinkets when the shop around the corner sells the same glow-in-the-dark crosses for a third of the price.

But time’s running out. Jared could walk back through that door at any minute, ready to steal Katie away. And once we’re back at the hotel? It’s over. The Crawford Family Circus will make sure I never get near her again.

“One hour till go time,” I announce to my flock of holy shoppers. A chorus of agreement echoes back, and they disperse into the aisles as if they were dismissed by the Pope himself.

I stride toward Katie and take her hand. “Time to talk, bella.”

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